


Quiet Men

by bwblack



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-10 06:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15285783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwblack/pseuds/bwblack
Summary: Mycroft and John support each other after Lestrade and Sherlock are shot.  AU.  Set after season 1.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first five chapters of this a very long time ago, to fill the prompt "John and Mycroft actually become friends- really, really good friends." Today I wrote Chapter 6... and the ending. Now to connect them.

**Jan 1, 2011**

Text message:  
Mycroft at pub. 

Mycroft drinks  
SH 

Mycroft belongs to a club.  
Mycroft is the club  
SH 

Mycroft is everything. 

Granted.  
SH 

Stop texting with my brother I snagged you a seat.  
Mycroft 

He “snagged” me a seat? 

Slumming?  
SH 

John makes his way to the bar and takes the stool at Mycroft’s right. “Are you stalking me?”  
“Of course not,” Mycroft scoffs. 

John would be more comforted by Mycroft’s reaction if his preferred drink weren’t waiting for him without him saying a thing to the bartender.

“I do spy on you, though.” Mycroft shrugged. 

“Comforting.” John downed the drink in one. 

"It should be.” Mycroft nods and a fresh drink appears in front of John. 

“It’s not.” John answers but Mycroft is gone. 

Your brother is odd. 

My brother IS odd… and prime.  
SH 

John finishes his drink before returning to the flat.

**Feb 1, 2011.**

John stands in line at a café inside a large department store. He needs a gift for Harry. Her 40th birthday is tomorrow. He hasn’t a clue what to get her.

“Gloves.” The voice is familiar. Still John cannot believe it. He turns, certain he’s mistaken. No. Mycroft? He blinks and blinks again. Mycroft is still there.

“You want me to pinch you?” Mycroft offers.

Seriously, he must be dreaming. He reaches front of the queue. The woman hands him a coffee and chocolate cherry scone. He hasn’t ordered a thing. He loves Chocolate Cherry Scones. He wants to ask how that happens. He wants to punch Mycroft in the face. He says, “Gloves?”

“For your sister, her 41st” Mycroft starts towards a table. John understands he is supposed to follow. He hasn’t paid for his order. He doesn’t think he’s supposed to.

“Her 40th” John takes the seat across from Sherlock’s brother.

“41st” 

“40th, she’s two years…”

Mycroft shakes his head, “You really didn’t know? Charming.”

“My sister is 41?”

“Yes.”

“My parents married…” John shook his head. “No, they were married 5 years before Harriet came along.”

“4.”

“Right. Why?” He doesn’t believe Mycroft, except he does.

“She wasn’t ready for school. She was small for her age. Your mother...”

“Am I 38?” John interrupts.

“Do you want to be?”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Gloves?”

“Yes.”

"Are you spying on my sister?”

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

“Yes.”

**Feb 7th, 2011-**

John is walking in the park. The weather is lovely in a sad sort of way. The flowers have begun blooming but it’s too early. They’ll die when the weather gets cold again. It depresses him.

“She liked the gloves?” John heard the footsteps coming up behind him. He isn’t surprised. He is surprised not to be surprised. 

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s pace quickens. He is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Feb 23rd 2011.**  
3:00 am. John stares at the clock by the bed. He checks his phone. He stares at the clock.

3:02 am. John plugs his phone in.

3:03 am. He needs tea.

3:05 am. He checks his phone.

Sherl…-- He’s texting when he hears a knock at the door. “Sherlo…” No, Sherlock wouldn’t knock. He opens the door. Mycroft stands in the entryway.

“He’s hurt.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“He’ll live?” It is a question.

“Yes.”

“Are you lying?”

“I don’t know.” John follows him down to the car. It’s windy, cold. It’s freezing. He didn’t grab a coat. He doesn’t care.

Mycroft’s car is warm. Too warm. “What happened? I had a shift at the surgery. A patient had to be transferred to hospital. I stay…” Emotion creeps into John’s voice. He coughs. He looks away.

“They got called away on a case.”

“They?”

“Sherlock and Gre…” Mycroft stops. His thumb taps against the wooden handle of his umbrella.

“Gregson?” Sherlock hates working with Gregson.

“Lestrade. Lestrade got called away on a case, a double homicide. He called Sherlock to do what Sherlock does.” 

John nods. The car isn’t going fast enough.

“Sherlock did what Sherlock does. He left. “ Mycroft groans as the car pulls to a stop. A red light. It’s not the first. “We need a siren.” Mycroft takes out his phone and presses a series of keys. John can’t be bothered to figure out which. 

“Officers heard shots fired. They, Lestrade, responded. More shots. Sherlock and…” Sirens envelope them. John can’t hear a thing; he doesn’t care. Their speed increases.

\--

10 am. John watches the clock. It doesn’t move. “Bloody thing is broken!”

“It’s not.” Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It must be.”

“It’s not.”

“You keep saying that.”

“It’s true.”

“It isn’t helping.”

“No.” Mycroft taps the tip of his umbrella against the tile floor.

John misses his cane.

10:01 am.

“It’s bro…”

“It’s not.”

10:02 am.

“Are you sure it’s not broken?”

“No.”

John smiles, almost. It hurts. “I don’t know what I’d do… I lo…” He can’t.

“I know.”

“Of course you do.”

Mycroft shrugs.

John’s voice cracks. “Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Are you lying?”

“No.” John nods.

The door opens. It’s the 245th time since they arrived in the waiting room. John’s been counting. He doesn’t look up. “Holmes!”

John and Mycroft both spring up. “He’s out of surgery. He’s lost a lot of blood. He’ll be out for a while. He might have a limp. He should be fine, in time.” She says other things.

Mycroft squeezes his hand.

“Fine?” He nearly laughs but stops himself. “He’ll be fine.” Tears threaten to fall. He doesn’t look away. “Mycroft he’ll…”

“The other man?” Mycroft’s voice is odd, strangled.

John returns his attention to the physician. “Yes, DI Lestrade.” He hates himself for forgetting about Lestrade.

“I’m sorry we can only release information to family.” John searches the doctor’s eyes. He doesn’t like what he sees. “I’m a doctor.”

“His doctor?”

“When can we see him?”

“Your brother? We are moving him to his room now. Somebody will be out to get you shortly.” The doctor is gone before they can ask another question.

Mycroft goes to the vending machine. He’s bought one of everything in the past seven hours. He’s eaten nothing. “Sherlock will be okay.” John places a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. It’s strange at first. Then it isn’t. They’ve been through a lifetime today.

“Yes.” The corner of Mycroft’s lip turns upwards. It’s genuine, but it’s not. John wonders what he’s missing. Then he knows. “Lestrade?”

“Yes.”

“You’re….”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t…”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

John averts his eyes, “you know everything about me.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know about you and Lestrade.” John wonders if he should still be calling Lestrade Lestrade. Sherlock and Gre… he recalls. “I assumed… he wears a ring. You both wear rings.”

“Yes.”

John sighs, “Yes?”

“My profession… his… “ Mycroft looks down at his feet. “It’s different now, somewhat….”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Years.”

“Does Sherlock know?”

“No.”

“Really?” John frowns. “Sherlock knows every…”

“No he doesn’t.”

“No,” John agrees, “he doesn’t.”

“He is very good at knowing only what he wishes to know.” Mycroft bites his lip, “and I suppose I am very good at keeping things from him, from everybody… It seemed better that way.”

“Seemed? Past tense.”

Mycroft’s lip curls upwards again, further this time. “It’s different now.”

“Enough?”

“It will have to be.”

John nods, understanding.

“I need to see him.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Not his doctor.”

“But…”

“You could be.” Mycroft’s picks up his phone as a nurse comes to show them to Sherlock’s room.


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson is a doctor. He’s seen plenty of injured, dying, and dead men before. He’s seen men, barely out of school, laying open before him their insides shredded by shrapnel and known they were too far gone. He has spent hours, days, weeks, months, years living and working amongst those injured and those healing.

He’s never been afraid of the sight of blood. He’s never shied away from an injured man. He’s never been made sick by the condition of a body found at a crime scene.

The sight of Sherlock’s prone pale body underneath the crisp white hospital sheets nearly undoes him. He wants to flee the room and erase this image from his mind. He wants to sit on the edge of the bed and rest his hand on Sherlock’s exposed skin, to let the warmth radiating off Sherlock’s body provide the reassurance he’s currently desperate for.

He does neither.

He steps tentatively towards the bed, but focuses on the numbers displayed on the numerous screens that indicate Sherlock’s condition. These digits he’s spent years relying on now feel wildly intangible.

“He’s too still,” John’s voice breaks when he hears Mycroft enter the room a minute later.

“They said he’d be out for a while yet,” Mycroft walks up to Sherlock’s bedside and takes his brother’s hand for a brief moment.

“Yes,” John agrees letting out a long breath.

Mycroft takes a chair across the room from his brother.

John studies the monitors.

“His vital signs?” Mycroft’s brow furrows in concern.

“Are encouraging,” John admits without taking his eyes from the machine.

“But?”

“I’m not encouraged.”

“Because?”

“He’s too still, too pale, too…”

“That’s not it, I don’t think,” Mycroft interrupts.

“He’s not moving,” anger flares up in John. He isn’t sure why. “He’s pale.”

“He’s always pale,” Mycroft says in a tone John reads as dismissive.

“I understand you aren’t concerned about him, but…”

“I’m always concerned about my brother,” Mycroft responds slowly, forcefully. “I am concerned about him now. I am just not concerned about his complexion.”

“No?”

“No.”

John takes the chair nearest Sherlock’s side and rubs his forehead with the palms of his hands.

Mycroft worries his phone in one hand, his umbrella in the other.

John’s eyes move between Sherlock’s sleeping body and his beeping monitors. John takes in every small change. He says nothing.

An hour passes without a word being exchanged.

“It’s too quiet,” Mycroft ventures at long last.

“Pardon?”

“Too quiet,” Mycroft repeats.

“You want inane banter?”

“I think the thing that is so disquieting is his silence.”

“He can go hours, days without speaking.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees.

"Yes?”

"Yes he is prone to sullen wordlessness, has been since he was a child.”

“Yes?”

“He’d sit for hours…days, once, in wordless stubborn refusal to eat his lima beans.

John pictures it at once and lets out a terse involuntary laugh, “days?”

“No fewer than three.”

“Three?”

“Yes.”

“How did it come out?”

Mycroft shrugs, “I am afraid the matter remained unresolved when I returned to school for the start of term.”

“You went off to school with Sherlock and your mother engaged in a battle of wills at the dining room table?”

“Yes.”

“And you never asked how it all turned out in the end?”

Mycroft sighs, “the thing about it, he said not a word. But he was far from quiet.”

“Dramatic sighs,” John nods, knowingly.

“Loud expulsions of breath.”

“Wildly persistent joint cracking.”

“Abuse of the furniture.”

“Now he shoots at the walls,” John’s face fell. “Sorry, I….” He looks at Sherlock and back at Mycroft whose eyes had dropped to his phone. “I’m sorry.”

Mycroft looks up after a long moment, “I rather prefer him shooting up the walls than shooting up himself.”

“I…” John nods.

“Still, I suspect it would be prudent to provide some reinforcement to your walls. It wouldn’t do at all to strike down a passing pedestrian.”

“Thank you.”

Mycroft nods.

John doesn’t realize he’s nodded off in his chair until he’s startled awake by a soft rap on the room’s partially open door. “Dr. Watson?”

“Yes?” He blinks trying to get his bearings. He has no idea how long he’s been asleep.

“Your patient is out of surgery.” John looks quickly at Sherlock’s sleeping body before remembering Lestrade. He looks to the corner where Mycroft had been seating. Mycroft is gone. “Yes?” 

“The doctor will be out to speak with you shortly.”


	4. Chapter 4

John has more than a passing acquaintance with gunshot wounds, his own, others. He’d treated countless in the army, he’s inflicted a few since his return, and received one. When the doctor begins detailing Lestrade’s injuries John is completely in his element. He’s had this conversation before. He’s led this conversation before. He knows these wounds.

He takes a look at the x-rays and they are familiar, unremarkable, yet completely new. He’s a little at sea. He’s treated these wounds in an army of men paraded through his operating theatre. This is a single man, a man he knows. He has stood beside this man on a very different battlefield. This man fell beside Sherlock. His injuries could have been, maybe should have been, his own..

He isn’t sure which of a thousand conflicting emotions he’s supposed to be feeling. So instead he focuses on the medicine. He asks every question he can think of. He memorizes the numbers. He asks more questions. He knows that each of these questions, and maybe others, will be repeated by Mycroft in a matter of minutes. He can do nothing else to help Lestrade, but he will be prepared. It is the very least he can do.

“He’s out of surgery,” John says as soon as Mycroft enters the room.

“And?” John isn’t sure Mycroft is breathing.

John nods towards the chair Mycroft had occupied earlier.

“If I prefer to stand?”

John shrugs.

Mycroft sits.

In some ways this part of his chosen profession had been easier when he served. There was precious little interaction with the families of the gravely injured men in his care. He’s not done this part in a very long time.

He expects Mycroft to jump in every few words with questions, but the man sits patiently his blue eyes focused, concentrating, absorbing every word as John goes over it all, the broken ribs, the collapsed lung, the bone fragments they removed from his lung, the bullet fragments they’ve removed from his spinal column, the potential for nerve damage, the problem of swelling and the seemingly minor injury to his knee.

Mycroft remains silent until John comes to a stop, “his prognosis?”

“It’s too soon..”

“John.”

“The damage was extensive. They’ve done everything that they can. How he responds…”

“So, we know nothing?”

“He came out of the surgery. That’s something.”

Mycroft nods but does not look comforted.

“You’ll feel better when you see him.”

Mycroft nods, “When will that be?”

“Until he’s in his room it’s two visitors for ten minutes every four hours.”

Mycroft works his jaw.

“It’s something.”

“Very little.”

“Yes,” John agrees.

Mycroft nods, “when?”

“An hour, less now.”

“Mycroft sighs.

“Where did you go?”

“Shooting at the walls.”

John looks incredulous.

“Metaphorically speaking.”

The idea of what Mycroft’s version of wall shooting might entail preoccupies his mind for some time.

“I took a walk.”

“I’m sorry?”

“As am I.” Mycroft manages the slightest of smiles, “I..”

“It’s hard, the sitting, the waiting.”

“I am accustomed to the sitting. I am unaccustomed to being useless. It is most unpleasant.”

John nods, remembering all too well how he felt before they’d come with news about Sherlock, how he felt lying in a hospital bed his shoulder in a cast, unable to help the men on his ward. He’d thought it would improve when he left the hospital, until he met Sherlock it gotten progressively worse.

“There is nothing I can do for him, or for Sherlock. The Met ran in the shooter before we’d even arrived at the hospital. Greg would want it that way. So, I suppose my not interfering is something. They are doing a blood drive in his name, it’s all over the news,” he holds up his phone, “and I can’t even participate in that. I know hundreds of people, John. I like a half dozen or so. I love three. Two of them are in this hospital and I am useless.”

“You’ll feel better once you see him.”


	5. Chapter 5

A half an hour later they stand at the entrance to the SICU washing their hands before being allowed in. John knows what to expect in the room and he hopes to give Mycroft some comfort by describing the various wires and tubes and their functions.

Mycroft taps his foot nervously.

“It won’t be so bad when you see him.”

“I know. I need to see him.“

“Okay then, go on,” John pushes the button letting them inside the first door.

Mycroft pulls up short just inside the second. From a small window he can see directly into Lestrade’s small room.

“I can’t go in there.”

“Mycroft!” John’s earlier irritation is bubbling up. He takes a breath.

“You go.”

“Mycroft?”

“John.”

John indicates the door to Lestrade’s room. “It’s time.”

“I can’t.”

“Mycroft,” John wants to throttle the man. He tries to call on his experience, as a doctor, to find more compassion. “Mycroft, you’re desperate to see him.”

Mycroft nods.

John reconsiders the throttling.

“She’s in there.”

“She?” John asks confused.

“His mother.” Mycroft nods in the direction of a plump grey haired woman.

“So?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“She might suspect.”

Mycroft shrugs.

“A few hours ago you were ready to out yourself to queen and country.”

“Yes.”

“But you’ve changed your mind.”

“I’ll ring the queen now, if you’d like,” Mycroft takes his phone from his pocket.

“You can’t just ring up the queen!”

“I assure you, I can.”

“You are stalling,” John accuses.

“Yes.”

“Go in.”

“I can’t. He wouldn’t want…” Mycroft shakes his head.

“He’s not in a position to argue.”

“You aren’t helping,” 

“What do you want me to say?”

“I will out myself, John, to anybody in the world. But you cannot ask me to out him to his mother. It’s different.”

“Mycroft.”

“Go in, please, see him. Tell me how he is. Tell me, everything.”

John frustration is mounting but visiting hours were almost over. He could go in at any time but if he has any hope of getting Mycroft in there in the next four hours he has to go now. “I’m going to tell him you’re a coward. Do you want him to hear that?”

“I hope that he does,” Mycroft smiles, sadly and holds the door open to John.

“Are you him?” A small gray haired woman asks as soon as John enters Lestrade’s room. Her tone is accusatory. It startles him.

“Pardon?”

“Are you him?”

“I am his doctor,” John motions towards Lestrade, “His GP.”

“Sorry, Doctor Patel,” Her voice teems with sarcasm, “You aren’t quite how I pictured you.”

John considers confessing, rather tearfully, about his adoption.

“So, are you him then?”

“Him who?” John asks.

“My son’s homosexual life partner.”

John nearly chokes.

“You aren’t quite how I pictured him, either. I thought you’d be taller, rounder maybe.”

“I’m not.”

“Taller and rounder? I can see that. But you are my son’s homosexual life partner?”

“No!” John considers fleeing from the room. Only then he will have to recount the entire exchange to Mycroft. He stays.

“You work for him?”

“Who?”

“My son’s…”

“No.”

“You aren’t Dr. Patel.”

“No.”

“And you aren’t him.”

“No,” John agrees. 

“And you don’t work for him.”

“No,” John agrees.

“Do you know him?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“He’s a friend?” John realizes it sounds like a question. He isn’t sure he would have categorized Mycroft as a friend before this morning. He’s thinks he would now.

“And he sent you in here to look after my son so he doesn’t have to?”

“He didn’t want to upset you.”

“Little late for that,” She focuses her attention on her injured son, “I don’t want him to be alone.”

John is unsure how to answer her.

“It’s time,” A nurse pokes her head in and motions towards the clock. “I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Lestrade squeezes her son’s hand. “I’ll be back. I’ll bring him with me.”

“I think she just might be able to do it,” John quips as he tries to commit everything about Lestrade’s condition to memory. He’s managed to escape interrogation once. He doubts he’ll be as lucky again. “I am familiar with his condition. I’d be happy to answer any questions…”

“I would like that,” she answers softly. “But first…” she takes a deep breath, “you’ll introduce me to him? I think it’s time.”

“Well past time,” Mycroft says as he takes his first tentative steps into his partner's room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for Watson Woes JWP #13 Blank Slate

"I’m sorry sir,” An officious looking nurse stops him as he begins to enter. “The visiting hour is up. You’ll have to come back at...” 

John tenses, expecting Mycroft to pull some sort of rank, to threaten to relocate the woman and her entire life en masse to the coldest most isolated reaches of Siberia. John starts towards the door trying to usher Mrs. Lestrade out of the room before she sees something that cannot be unseen. 

Mycroft smiles sadly at the nurse and barely whispers, “please.”

She looks up at the clock and back at him, “one minute, one minute only.”

Mycroft nods solemnly and takes three long deliberate steps to the head of his partner’s bed.

“We should…” John resumes his motion to the door. 

Mrs. Lestrade places a hand on his arm, halting his progress. 

John tries not to watch. For all of Mycroft's theatrics, he is a private, quiet man. Allowing his most private moments to be displayed for two virtual strangers feels wrong to John. 

Mycroft, however, pays no attention to the onlookers. 

John watches, entranced, trying to figure out what words could possibly do in a moment such as this one. He comes up with nothing and eventually takes a step backwards.

The noise of his feet on the linoleum floor makes a terrible squeak and the nurse looks up, frowns, and coughs. 

"It is time," She mutters.

John knows he brought the nurses attention back around and he thinks he might deserve whatever punishment Mycroft deems worthy for this all too abrupt interruption. 

 

Mycroft looks up, nods, the corners of his lips tick upward but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. He squeezes Lestrade's hand and rests his forehead for just a moment against his partner's. 

"Thank you," he almost whispers in the direction of the nurse then turns sad eyes on John and his companion, "Now I believe we were going to get some tea. There is a rather fine bakery down the street. I'll have some things brought in."

"The cafeteria is right downstairs." John reminds him as they walked out of the doors that separated the most critical patients from the rest of the floor.

"We have been here a full day, John. We've not slept. We've not changed clothes. Surely, we can be spared one last indignity."

"Surely," John sighs. 

Mycroft turns to the older woman, "I am so very sorry our meeting had to occur under these circumstances,"

"As far as I can tell, Mr. Holmes, these are the only circumstances in which they might have." 

"Yes, and for that, I am sorry."

The older woman nods. 

Mycroft leads the group down one hall, up another, up two floors on the lift, and then around a corner.

For all the time John's spent in hospitals he can't fathom if Mycroft has worked out the internal maze of this one, or if he is marching them around in random circles, trying to expend excess energy and prolong the true moment of confrontation between himself and Lestrade's mother.

Two turns later, John was completely lost but then Mycroft pushed open a door and held it open for the two people following him. "I hope you don't mind, I took the liberty..." 

John walks into the small private waiting room, astonished, but not really to find the table filled with a silver tea service and a wide array of pastry and other more savory small bites. 

"I wasn't sure what might appeal so I ordered a bit of everything." Mycroft explains, wearily. 

John nods, unsure of what meal they are nearest too, unsure of the last time he ate. He's not given much thought to food since Mycroft's call and that feels like three lifetimes ago, but he wouldn't swear to it. 

He's not noticed hunger, but suddenly he's ravenous and he has to restrain himself from grabbing a little bit of everything all at once. Suddenly he is reminded of decorum and turns to make sure that Lestrade's mother has made it into the room.

She's already seated, in a descent chair, as far as John can tell the only one in the whole hospital. 

"Right," he sits down. Unsure of what to do next. It feels, somehow, as if they have audience with the queen and he shouldn't begin making his plate until she has eaten. 

"You should get something, John. Your stomach's protests have become rather loud and we don't want you fainting. We're occupying enough of this institution's rooms do you not agree?" 

"Right," John says again, but he takes a plate and avails himself of a small sampling.

The food really does taste good, like a small life preserver in the middle of the ocean. Food always tastes better to the hungry.

But after a few bites, his body unsatiated, but past a danger can no longer stomach any of it. He pushes his plate away and notices the others have made very little progress on their own. 

"Lestrade's… Greg's injuries are extensive. The surgery he endured was a long one. Assuming he can avoid infection, recovery will be long, slow, painful, and tedious." John is too tired to pull punches. 

"But he will recover?" Mrs. Lestrade voice trembles slightly. 

"He will need a good deal of support." John doesn't want to make promises he can't keep, but he does know what Lestrade needs, will need. Knows what he needed, anyway. "Not just in the physical sense." 

"He will have the very best of everything," Mycroft says to Mrs. Lestrade. "I assure you." 

"I don't know you, sir. Your assurances mean nothing to me."


	7. Chapter 7

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. I love your son." 

"That isn't much." Mrs. Lestrade sighs. 

"It is all that I have." Mycroft bites his bottom lip. "John, Anthea is waiting outside. She'll get you back to Sherlock's room. Thank you." 

John wants to spring up and rush back to Sherlock, wants to stay, wants to make this easier for everybody, anybody. 

"Go." Mycroft tilts his head towards the door. "He shouldn't be alone." 

"If you need anything…" John offers hand already on the door. 

Mycroft nods and turns back to his companion. "What can I do?" 

"I left him in your care, Mr. Holmes. I let you both be. Now he's broken. I think you've done more than enough." 

\-- 

John takes his seat at Sherlock's bedside. "I'm back." He rubs the back of Sherlock's hand, careful of the ivs and wires. "I have so many things I want to say to you, but first I need you to wake up. So just wake up." 

Sherlock sleeps. 

"In your own time then." John mutters, a slight edge of worry disguised as bitterness. "Like always." 

\-- 

"No change?" Mycroft stands in the doorway, watching John watch Sherlock. 

"He should be awake by now." John's worry no longer disguised. 

""The doctors said that they were going to keep him heavily sedated for the first 24 hours." Mycroft reminds John. "To keep him from pulling out his stitches before he's begun healing." 

"I know. I do. I just… " 

"I know." Mycroft nods. "All too well, I know." 

"Any change?" John asks. 

"They're moving him out of surgical recovery and into his room in the ICU. I'll be able to stay with him, we will be able to stay with him." 

"You and Mrs. Lestrade? How is it?" 

"It's fine." 

"Is it?" 

"She loves him." 

"And..." 

"She hates me." 

"I'm sorry." 

Mycroft shrugs. "I'm an acquired taste." 

John actually smiles, "I can't argue with you there." 

"It is late. You haven't slept. If you want to get some rest, my assistant will alert you to any chance in Sherlock's condition. You won't have much chance once he wakes up." 

John shakes his head, "I can't. I want to...I need to be here when he wakes." 

"I know." Mycroft nods, “If you change your mind….” 

"I know." 

\-- 

"You're back." Mrs. Lestrade sounds surprised when Mycroft returns to the SICU waiting area. 

He places a cup of tea in by Mrs. Lestrade. "Of course." 

"You left." 

"To check on my brother, to get a cup of tea, among other things." 

"Other things being Detective Sergeant Donovan?" 

Mycroft looks down, "I had been referring to more physically pressing matters. However..." 

"Your name is Mycroft Holmes. You love my son. But not in front of anybody else?" 

Mycroft grips the handle of his umbrella tightly. Takes a deep breath in and lets it out. "Greg loves his job. He is good at it. He's worked his entire adult life to build up a reputation. Tomorrow all of that is gone. He's the gay detective." Mycroft winces, "The dick that likes dick." 

\-- 

John nods off, jerks awake, nods off again. 

"That chair pulls out into a sofa." Sherlock's voice comes out as a croak, but it is Sherlock's voice. John's eyes shoot open. 

"Sherlock?" John is sure he's dreaming. Sherlock's eyes are closed. His vitals are stable. 

"You were expecting someone else?" Sherlock opens one eye, slams it shut. 

"You are awake." 

"Excellent deduction, Doctor." 

John feels tears and laughter welling up. "Bloody hell! You're sarcastic even under sedation." 

"It's a gift." Sherlock turns his head towards John. Tries opening his eyes. Closes them again. "One of many. I am gifted." 

"And your ego remains intact," John focuses on finding the button to turn off the overhead lights. "How are you?" 

"Throat hurts. Leg. Eyes. Too bright. And something won't stop beeping." 

John reaches over and puts a hold on the beeping machine. "I'll get you some ice, pain medication and…" John wants to take a pen light to examine Sherlock's eyes, wants to examine every inch of him . "I'll get your nurse." 

Sherlock shakes his head, winces. "Wait! The shooter? It was Gates." 

"The police ran him in almost immediately. They have him dead to...." John immediately regrets his choice of words. 

"Lestrade?" Sherlock pales. 

"No, he's not…." John objects. 

"He couldn't breathe, his lips were going blue and when he coughed blood bubbled up. So much blood. I tried to stop the bleeding. I tried. You have to tell Mycroft I tried. I tried." 

John squeezes Sherlock's hand. "Greg's here. He's hanging on. Breathe." 

"He was asking for Mycroft. He kept asking for Mycroft." 

"Mycroft's with him, I think. I hope." 

\-- 

"Lestrade." A nurse calls. 

Donovan, Mrs. Lestrade, and Mycroft all shoot up at once. 

"I'm sorry only two visitors at a time are permitted in the ICU." 

"I'm his mother," Mrs. Lestrade insists. 

"And I am his partner." Mycroft adds as he steps towards Lestrade's room.


End file.
